


i will stay, if you dare

by tragicallynerdy



Category: Critical Role (Web Series), UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Break Up, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Endgoal AlyClaySon, Everybody Lives, Getting Back Together, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Romance, Slow Burn, soft men being soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:22:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29702604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tragicallynerdy/pseuds/tragicallynerdy
Summary: One night Matthew kisses him until he’s breathless, slots their fingers together and doesn’t let go. Three weeks is not a long time, but it feels like a lifetime of getting to know each other.“Stay?” Matthew asks, and so Clayton does.Two days later and he wakes to an empty bed, and an empty room, and finds that Matthew is gone.Matthew leaves. Clayton is left to pick up the pieces; first by himself, and then with Aly, building something solid, something real, something beautiful. And then, after a time, with Matthew too.
Relationships: Aloysius Fogg/Clayton Sharpe, Aloysius Fogg/Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe, Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Comments: 9
Kudos: 17





	i will stay, if you dare

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy folks! 
> 
> This one got started ages ago, first as a snippet, then eventually morphing into the monster before you. I've been in a huge AlyClay and AlyClaySon mood, so this is a product of me having all the feels. It's been a lot of fun to write, I hope you enjoy it <3
> 
> Many thanks to all y'all at the UnDeadwood discord for being lovely and encouraging, and especially to the folks that helped with bits and pieces of it. Y'all are the very best <3
> 
> As always, please read the tags. This takes place post-canon, and assumes that Aly didn't get any backlash, the duel didn't happen, and Clayton lives. Additional warnings include: injury (stabbing, someone nearly cutting a finger off), vomiting in one part, grief, broken trust, some descriptions of anxiety and panic attacks.
> 
> The title comes from "If I Go, I'm Goin" by Gregory Alan Isakov.

It’s easy, falling into bed with Matthew, after it's all over. After they all stumble back to town and nurse each other’s wounds, after Aly claps him on the back and slides a folded up bounty poster into his pocket, after Miriam pours them shots and Arabella laughs for the first time since she shot her sister; Matthew looks at him as they head to bed, and grins broad and shameless, and it’s only too easy to press him up against his hotel door and kiss the grin off his mouth.

They work on the church, and do odd jobs, and gain a name for themselves in town. That part isn’t hard; they had been noticed that first night, when they lit up the town and laid claim to its soul. _You are ours to protect,_ they’d said, with their guns and their magic. _Yes,_ the town whispered back. _And just as we are yours, so do you belong to us._

(it’s a fickle relationship, all strung-wire tension and careful answers and hiding what they can and lying about what they can’t while the town lets it slip, lets them stay, lets them make a home in the belly of its dirt and greed)

Matthew and he fall into a routine, of working and drinking and fucking in their hotel rooms or the church or anywhere they can find a moment of privacy. It’s softer than Clayton’s usual trysts, full of Matthew’s laughter and a hand twining in his, the press of Matthew’s lips to his cheek. Three weeks later and Clayton wonders if this is what it is like to fall in love, if this is what it is like to finally find a home. Matthew is generous with his affection, makes it seem as easy as breathing in a way that’s more difficult for Clayton. It feels like bravery, like a hand pulling him up from the pit, like something solid and sure.

 _Anchor me_ , he’d said, and Matthew did. And then he did again, and again, and again. Matthew is strong, and he can carry the weight of Clayton’s uncertainty. He can make the ground beneath their feet steady, a foundation to build upon.

One night Matthew kisses him until he’s breathless, slots their fingers together and doesn’t let go. Three weeks is not a long time, but it feels like a lifetime of getting to know each other.

“Stay?” Matthew asks, and so Clayton does.

Four days later he wakes to an empty bed, an empty room, and finds that Matthew is gone. There is no note, and no warning. Clayton asks around, frantic and furious with the idea that maybe Matthew has been taken, that maybe someone has finally tried to claim the bounty that lies on his head, the one Clayton isn’t sure Matthew realizes he knows about.

(they’d never talked about their bounties, either of them, and now it is too late, too goddamn _late_.)

But the livery boy tells him that Matthew bought a horse, and a saddle, and rode off in the late hours of the previous night.

(after clayton had fallen asleep in matthew’s bed, with matthew warm at his side, his arm over clayton’s waist. did he know that he was leavin’, when he told clayton goodnight?)

“Didn’t say where he was goin’,” the boy shrugged. “Just said he needed a horse, and that he weren’t gonna bring it back.”

Something hollow fills Clayton to the brim, the sort of grief he’d thought he had no room for. He wonders when he became the brave one. He wonders when he became the one who stayed.

* * *

But life goes on, as it always does. Miriam and Arabella are sad, and angry, and disbelieving. They ask questions that Clayton has no answer for, and spout theory after theory on why the good preacher would leave. Clayton does not tell them about the bounty poster. It’s not his business anyway; not anymore, at least.

(he wonders, briefly, if matthew knows that he would’ve followed, if only he’d been asked; that he would have helped him with whatever drove him from town, whatever made leaving in secret such a necessity. that he knows all about running, knows about bounties, and doesn’t care about the price on matthew’s head. but then he decides that it doesn’t matter, anyway; matthew never trusted him enough to ask.)

Aly, for his part, listens and shakes his head. He looks at Clayton a mite too closely, something knowing in his eyes, then pulls him into a rough hug.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Clayton can’t help the hitch to his breath, the way he clings to the comfort. Just for a moment, then he pulls away, shakes his head.

“It ain’t yours to apologize for,” he mutters. “Ain’t no big deal anyhow.”

Aly’s mouth turns down, and he looks like he’s going to say something, but Clayton is already half-way out the door. He can’t take the pity, the acknowledgement of his grief; that only makes it sharper, lends an edge to the hollowness that he can’t ignore so easily.

He doesn’t stay away, though. He can’t, even though the thought of leaving slips across his mind more times than he could count. They’re the only thing he has now, and there’s still a place for him here, in this dirty little town that has claimed them as its own. Relief breaks out on Miriam’s face when she finds him slouching in his usual chair at the Gem the next morning, and Arabella beams in a way he’s never seen before. Aly grins and claps him on the back when he slides into the chair at Aly’s elbow.

“Good man,” he says. Clayton nods, and they don’t speak of it again.

* * *

He lets himself wallow for two days, then he goes to the empty church, looks at the lumber and nails that Matthew had purchased, and gets to work. He’s not sure why; he's not religious, doesn't care about there being a place of worship in this town. And it’s not like there’s a preacher here to fill the empty building with the words of god, to draw a congregation in and fill their hearts with redemption. But it feels wrong, leaving it empty and ruined, a burnt husk of what it could be. And it’s not like he has much else to do these days.

(he ignores the part of him that believes that if the church had been whole, that maybe matthew would have stayed -)

Arabella helps, directing him on what to do, drawing up plans and schematics and making use of her smarts. The others are there too, when they can be; Aly still doesn’t enter the church, not yet, but he helps with the outside and the little apartment over the church, lending his hands and his strength where he can. Miriam, for her part, brings them meals and teases them until spirits lighten, until the work feels a little less pointless.

None of them ask why he's taken it upon himself to fix up the church, and he realizes that they’re grieving Matthew’s absence too. The space he filled was large, and there's an emptiness in their small group that’s noticeable. They joke, and snark, and try to fill the empty space, try to smooth away the rough edges until they feel whole again.

Gratitude is an odd feeling, but it’s one that sits well nonetheless. It doesn’t ease the sting of Matthew leaving, but it makes him feel more solid, more sure.

He can make a place for himself, here. He can have a home.

(and maybe, just maybe, a family)

* * *

He’s not sure how it happens. It’s been months since Matthew left (five, although he tries to pretend he isn’t counting) and they’ve grown closer, all of them have. They’re a solid team, filling in the gaps that Matthew left like he was never there to begin with.

(that’s not true, not entirely – they still notice, still have moments where it’s obvious that they’re waiting for some response that won’t ever come. but they pretend that they don’t feel the presence of his ghost, because that’s easier.)

The church is long since finished. It’s become – not a house of worship, not without a pastor to lead it, but a community centre, of sorts. The sort of place that Aly finally feels comfortable entering, where the four of them sit and play cards when they’re not up for the busyness of the saloons, and where young mothers bring their children for somewhere safe for them to run loose. They fill only half the sanctuary with pews, leaving space near the back for chairs and tables, and the seats are filled more often than not. The walls echo with laughter, and that’s better than prayers, in Clayton’s opinion.

(he still misses the way that matthew prayed, the sounds of his voice echoing calmness and surety into the space around them, the clink of rosary beads in his hand -)

Clayton has moved into the little apartment over the church, into the rooms where Matthew would have stayed. He’ll leave if a new preacher ever comes to town, but no one has, so he lets himself live there, and tries to tell himself that it isn’t because he knows that this is where Matthew will come first.

But then one night Aly stays late, and Clayton lets himself linger in the companionship, in the flash of Aly’s teeth as he laughs, in the comfort of his presence. Before he knows it Aly is leaning close and kissing him, mouth open and inviting and so goddamn _warm_.

He hesitates for a moment, just a moment, but that’s enough. Aly stops, and withdraws, and smiles crookedly.

“Sorry, Clay. I know you’re still –“

Before he can finish whatever he was going to say, Clayton pulls him back in, shuts him up by slotting their mouths together.

“I ain’t been waiting for him,” he says when he pulls away, a little breathlessly. They both know that it’s a lie, but they let it slide, let it become whatever truth Clayton wills it to be.

Aly smiles again, and tugs until Clayton slides into his lap, until he can wrap his arms around his waist and hold him steady ( _anchor me_ , Clayton does not think). He doesn’t say much, just smudges a kiss to Clayton’s cheek, then his jaw, then the heartbeat pulsing in his throat.

“Alright,” he murmurs, then kisses him slowly, like they have all the time in the world.

* * *

(“i ain’t going nowhere,” aly whispers that night, curled around clayton in his narrow bed. clayton’s breath hitches, and he nods, closes his eyes tight as aly presses a kiss to his hair.

“neither am I,” he whispers back.)

* * *

The relationship with Aly blooms slow and strong, all twined limbs and hidden kisses and the firm grip of his hands on Clayton’s skin. He’s solid and sure in a way Matthew wasn’t, and Clayton knows he would ground him, if he let him. And there’s a patience there, a shared understanding that this needs to take time, that they _have_ time to take.

(or at least he hopes they do. some part of him is constantly worried, unsure if he’ll wake up to find aly gone, to find his bed empty and all his hopes dashed again.)

And through it all, he still can’t help but wonder, sometimes, why Matthew left. If it was because he wasn’t enough, or wasn’t worthwhile enough to stay (or to take with him, _god_ he would have gone anywhere if he’d only been asked). If it was because of _him_ , because of the ruin that he is, the broken man who’s not enough (not enough never _enough_ ) to keep anyone at his side. He knows he’s not a good man, nor an easy one to love, all barbs and bared fangs and more walls than he can count.

(he still doesn’t know why aly’s staying, why he keeps holding clayton close and making him laugh and liking him despite everything, despite all the cracked pieces barely held together with spare bits of glue that make up ‘clayton sharpe’)

He’s usually the one who runs.

(and doesn’t that just make the guilt deeper, the knowledge of the lives he’s ruined, the hearts he’s broken, the people he’s left behind when the risk was too great)

But this time, this time he stays. And he finds himself clinging to the people he has, scared shitless by the idea that they might leave too, that he might not be enough to keep them here. There aren’t many things that scare him shitless anymore, but this, this is one of them.

So he tries to make himself better, to be more, to be _enough_. To not be the Coffin, the one who hides, the one who has so many walls he hides behind. He forces himself to talk more, to laugh more, to listen more, to be _more_. Even when it makes him want to hide, makes him want to scream, to pull away and never fucking speak again. It hurts, sometimes, like he’s forcing his ribcage open and exposing his cracked and bleeding heart, like he’s showing them all the chinks in his armour.

(he doesn’t like the eyes on him, the attention, the way people look at him and _see_ , the way every goddamn person in town knows his name and where to find him. don’t they know how easy it would be to kill him? don't they know that it’s happened before?)

(maybe the pain is a necessary part of becoming)

Miriam doesn’t notice, and neither does Arabella. They just look happy that he’s there, that he’s open, that he’s becoming a new man. That he’s no longer the bristling, snarling mess that they first met, and instead is a leader, a cornerstone to their little community.

(the thought makes him want to vomit, reminds him too much of his father and his charm and how he had their whole goddamn town curled around his finger. he can’t become that, he _can’t_ , but he also can’t be this thing that stays in the shadows, too intangible to keep people here)

But Aly watches him with too-knowing eyes, sees the tremble in his hands and the blankness behind the smile, the pieces of him that seem to disappear the longer he’s in the lime-light.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says softly, when he finds Clayton shaking apart in the corner after speaking with one too many person, forcing one too many smile. He sits beside him, shoulders pressed tight together, and hands him a flask. “You don’t have to fill the spots he left empty.”

Clayton just shakes his head, swallows around the heavy knot in his throat. “Ain’t that.”

Aly hums, takes one of his hands, clenched into fists so tight it hurts. He waits, gentle as ever, until Clayton can uncurl his fist, until Aly can slip their hands together instead. “What is it, then?”

Clayton looks at him, remembers the promise he’d made, the one that he wouldn’t leave.

(matthew hadn’t promised, but he’d thought matthew wouldn’t need to, that he would stay, that he would be here if clayton would only stop fucking running, if he would just be a part of _something_ \- )

“I don’t know how else to keep you.”

Aly squeezes his hand, hard enough that it hurts, hard enough that it breaks through everything, that it feels _real_.

“Darling, you never needed to. I’m already yours.”

* * *

(“i love you,” aly murmurs to him, “and i wanted you to know. but you don’t gotta –“

“aly,” clayton says softly, cutting him off. aly looks worried, so clayton kisses him to wipe the fear away, hand curled gently around the back of his neck. “darlin’, of course i love you too.”)

* * *

So he stops. Or rather, Aly stops him, takes over, steps smoothly into the places he leaves empty. He reminds Clayton everyday with his words and his actions that he is enough, that he is _enough_. So Clayton steps back, patches his bleeding edges, lets the goddamn fear recede to it’s place in his heart. Miriam notices, then, notices his absence, notices the protective way that Aly intercepts handshakes and questions and smiles and waves.

“You coulda said that you didn’t like all that attention,” she says quietly, when she catches him alone.

He nods, and ducks under his hat, avoids the eyes that see too goddamn much.

(he knows that even if he’s enough for aly, that doesn’t mean he’s enough for everyone, for the people who want him to be more, want him to be something he isn’t)

She touches his hand, waits until he looks at her. “I mean it, sugar,” she says, gentle (too gentle). “You don’t have to be something you’re not. Alright?”

He swallows, and nods, and does not try to explain his actions. He doesn’t think he needs to, with her.

And things… things get better, in so many different ways. Aly left his hotel room long ago, but it feels like they finally _settle_ , together in this space. They make it theirs, and that… it makes everything feel alright. They go on jobs, and Clayton does what he does best; he protects, and he keeps his people safe, and he stays in the shadows so that they don’t have to.

And through it all he and Aly grow ever closer. They fit together so _well_ , in ways Clayton hadn’t realized was possible. Aly _loves_ him in ways he hadn’t thought possible, and he loves him back just as much. He’s the first partner Clayton’s had for more than a few weeks in a long time, and it’s a beautiful thing, learning all the bits and pieces of someone that they hide away from the world.

(he never thought himself to be the romantic sort, but something about aly makes him want to bring him flowers, and fine foods, whatever will make him smile, whatever will make him laugh long enough for clayton to savour in the sound. he _loves_ him, and god, how beautiful to watch the love between them flourish, deepen, become rich as fine wine)

Time passes, days and weeks and months, and it’s good, it’s so goddamn good. Until one day, when he’s chopping vegetables in the kitchen, and there’s a knock on the door.

“It’s open,” he calls, smile curling on his lips. He never thinks, doesn’t notice that the footsteps –

(he will wonder, later, if the part of his brain that’s kept him safe for so many goddamn years was going soft, or if it’d just registered the footsteps for someone who mattered, someone who wasn’t a threat)

“Clayton?”

He looks over his shoulder, and there’s Matthew, staring at him with a bag slung over his shoulder, and a fresh bruise on his cheek.

He nearly cuts his own finger off.

* * *

It’s been a long time, well over a year, of knowing with so much goddamn certainty that Matthew wasn’t going to _ever_ come back. But here he is, staring at Clayton in horror as blood wells up from the cut on Clayton’s finger, starts streaming down his wrist. Clayton’s cut himself to the bone, but somehow, somehow it still hurts less than seeing Matthew.

(he didn’t think having him returned would hurt as bad as him leaving and yet -)

Matthew starts across the kitchen for him, but Clayton snarls, and that stops him in his tracks. Clayton grabs a cloth, presses it to the wound with his free hand and shoulders around Matthew, out of the kitchen and to the door.

“Clayton, I –“

Clayton pulls on his boots and hat with one bloody hand, slings his gun belt over his shoulder, and leaves.

* * *

Matthew follows after, trailing him like a lost puppy. He tries to catch up, once, wraps his hand around Clayton’s elbow to get him to stop. Clayton wrenches himself free, turning with the motion, slamming his bleeding wreck of a hand into Matthew’s face.

“Fuck _off._ ”

Then he keeps stumbling down the street, not looking back, ignoring the drip of blood behind him. He glares at anyone who stares, and pulls his hat down low over his face. The streets are still busy, and more than one person whispers about the Reverend following him. He ignores that too, and somehow he makes it to Arabella’s office.

Aly is there, talking with Arabella about something that he can’t hear. They both look up when he clumsily pushes his way inside, cussing under his breath at the door handle, which is hard to open with hands slippery with blood. Aly gets to his feet and comes forward, worry crossing his brow as he takes in the blood dripping down Clayton’s arm.

“Clay, what –“

The door creaks open behind him, and he knows who’s there, knows by the weight of his presence and the fury that appears on Aly’s face at the sight of him. Aly tucks Clayton carefully aside, situates himself between them, squaring himself to Matthew. Behind them Arabella has frozen, mouth falling open as she stares at him. There’s a smear of blood on Matthew’s jaw from Clayton’s hand, and an already purpling bruise.

“What did you _do_?” Aly demands, stepping towards Matthew. Clayton grabs his arm before he can try and punch the good Reverend, hauls him back. Matthew looks stunned at the accusation, then angry.

“Hey, I didn’t do _shit_ –“

“I nearly cut my damn finger off,” Clayton says loudly, tugging again on Aly’s arm. “‘Bells, think I need stitches.”

She moves at that, bustling forward and taking his hand in hers. “Now why the hell would you go and do a fool thing like that?”

Clayton grins, or he tries to, anyway. He’s seen his share of blood. He’s used to the shock of injuries, to the throb of pain that comes from wounds left by knives or bullets, to the slick warm spread of blood across his skin. But for some reason this one, this cut on his goddamn finger when he wasn’t expecting it is what makes him shaky. His head is spinning, and it shouldn’t be. This is small, infinitesimal. 

(and he knows that there is a difference between being injured on the battlefield, when adrenaline is pumping and when you _expect_ to get injured goddammit, and nearly cutting off a finger in your own damn kitchen. he also knows that he’s ignoring the fact that this isn’t just about the cut on his goddamn finger. but if he acknowledges it, admits to the shock of seeing matthew, then he acknowledges his own weakness; and that, that he cannot do. not here. not now.

later, with aly, curled up in darkness, the other man’s lips on his shoulder. but not here. not now.)

“The knife slipped,” he says, turning away from Matthew and letting Arabella push him onto her operating table. “That’s all.”

* * *

Arabella makes him lie down on her surgical table before she’ll start stitching his finger together, glaring at him until he concedes.

“I ain’t havin’ you pass out and fallin’ off your chair,” she snaps when he tries to protest. So he lays down, and doesn’t flinch when she peels the sodden cloth from the wound. It’s vulnerable, lying here, but then so is this entire thing. At least it gives him an excuse to stare at the ceiling, to ignore the way that Aly is glaring daggers at Matthew, and the way Matthew is staring from him to Aly like he’s starting to understand.

“Didn’t think you were coming back,” Aly drawls. “After you abandoned the church and all.”

(the “after you abandoned clayton, after you abandoned _us_ ” goes unsaid)

Arabella sets Clayton’s hand in a basin and starts sluicing water into the cut, forcing the blood and any dirt from the gaping edges of the wound. Clayton grits his teeth and closes his eyes against the spin of the room around him.

“I… had some things to take care of.” Matthew’s voice is guarded, secretive, and Clayton wonders if it was always like that, if he’d been so damn infatuated that he missed it. “I didn’t think I’d be gone this long.” A floorboard creaks, and then his voice is closer. “Clayton, I –“

Clayton stiffens. Before he can snap at Matthew to fuck off, he feels the displacement of air and hears the shift of clothing that means Arabella has turned. He can only imagine her glare.

“Get out.”

Matthew’s speech falters. But Arabella is still talking, fast and firm, the fierce protector that he always knew she was. How lucky they were, that her anger was for them and not against them.

“This ain’t a conversation that’s gonna happen now. You can come back when he ain’t bleedin’ on my table.”

“But –“

“ _Out._ Begone, or I’ll have Mister Fogg escort you onto the street.”

The tension is palpable, and Clayton wishes he had more words, that they weren’t tangled up in his throat, liable to choke him if he speaks.

Matthew clears his throat. “Right. I’ll… I’ll be stayin’ at the Bullock. If you want to talk.”

And then he leaves.

(bitterness and relief, the taste of ash on his tongue)

Arabella turns back, huffs out an annoyed breath. “Right then. Let’s stitch you up.”

* * *

Aly doesn’t say anything, but Clayton can feel him, watching in the background, content to wait. Arabella bitches about his finger, but it’s lighthearted, the kind of griping that he’s come to expect. That, more than anything, is what settles him.

(it feels normal, like the whole world hasn’t just tipped over and spilled him sideways, leaving him grasping for anything that will keep him from falling)

“You okay?” Aly finally murmurs when he’s stitched and bandaged, waiting and trying to clear his head as Arabella washes up. He’s come over, hip leaned against the table Clayton still lies on, and when Clayton finally opens his eyes he’s looking at him carefully, waiting to take his cue.

He nods, and Aly smiles, soft and a little unsure.

(and he understands, then, that as much as aly is angry for him, as much as aly wants to protect him, he is still human. he is still prone to doubt, to worry, to uncertainty. and he knows that aly cannot help but wonder if matthew will replace him, now that he has returned.

but matthew is not the one who stayed. matthew is not the one he loves. not anymore.)

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Clayton says, curling his bloody hand around one of Aly’s, squeezing just enough that he sees the relief flicker in his eyes. “I promise.”

Aly exhales, smiles a little surer. “Okay, love. I ain’t either.”

(later, when they are alone, he will hold aly close, and kiss him soft and slow, imparting all his love through lips and tongue, through the simple press of skin against skin, the holiest of vows.

“i meant it,” he will murmur, until he sees belief reflected back at him. “i love you, and i will keep loving you, for as long as you’ll have me.”

aly will nod, and kiss him back, breathing life into his lungs. “i meant it too.”)

* * *

“We’re going to need to speak to him,” Arabella says frankly when she comes back, hands scrubbed clean. She’s got her war face on, the one that means she’s not going to back down. “At the very least, I want to know where he went,” her face pinches, “and if he’s going to want the church back.”

(if he’s going to step in and ruin this thing that they have built this thing that is _theirs_ )

(it is too precious to let go, but they have no legal right to it, despite the blood and sweat and love they’ve poured into it. and matthew, for all that they loved him once, for all that he was theirs, is now a stranger.)

He knows it needs to happen, as much as he doesn’t want it to. So Clayton forces his emotions back behind the wall, the one that he doesn’t have to use quite so often, anymore. Lets himself become cold and distant, neutral, the Coffin at work. He can do this. He’s done worse before.

“Ok,” he says, shoving himself to sitting. He wavers, scowling at the rush of blood from his head. “Let’s go.”

Aly puts a hand on his knee. “Maybe tomorrow, ‘Bells. I ain’t up for seein’ him again tonight.”

“Alright,” she says reluctantly, “we can wait. I can’t promise that Miriam won’t march over there as soon as she finds out, but I’ll try to keep her from killin’ him.”

“Please do,” Aly says with a half-smile. “Why don’t y’all meet us at the church tomorrow mornin’ round ten, we can go from there?”

Arabella nods, then raises her eyebrow at Clayton. “Don’t you go gettin’ that bandage wet, y’hear? And no more punchin’ people when your thumb is nearly fallin’ off.”

Clayton snorts, and slides off the table. His feet are steady, as are his hands. And even if they weren’t, he’s got Aly beside him. And at the end of the day, that’s all that matters, now. Aly, and the girls, their little family of four.

“I ain’t makin’ any promises,” he says, grinning at Arabella’s scowl. “Promise not to fuck up your handiwork though, ‘Bells.”

“You’d best not,” she mutters as she ushers them out the door. “Think even you might have trouble firin’ a gun with no thumb.”

* * *

When they are home, Aly cleans the blood off their kitchen, refusing Clayton’s help with a pointed look at his hand.

“Let me do this,” he says, and so Clayton does.

(it’s not as though this is new, one of them caring for the other while making gentle chides about injuries and bandages and not pulling on stitches. they lead hard lives, and get injured often, and if they’re lucky, it’s not both at the same time. they’re used to it, to being careful about bruises and abrasions, about carefully stitched together wounds. clayton's not had someone be gentle with him quite like this before, and he’s not had someone to _be_ gentle like with this before. he finds he rather likes it.)

(in the past he would think, sometimes, that if matthew and he had had time, that the tenderness he’d seen hints of would have come to fruition. that the easy affection would have become care, maybe even love. but they didn’t have time, so what was the point of ruminating?)

After they eat, Clayton twines their fingers together, pulls Aly’s knuckles to his lips. “Let me take you to bed?”

Aly’s eyes crinkle at the edges as he smiles. He nods, head tilting back when Clayton stands and comes around the side of their tiny table, accepting the kiss pressed to his mouth, deep, soft, lovely as anything.

(they both need this, this reaffirmation that they are here, that they are real, that this will not tear them apart. that whatever happens with matthew, they have made a commitment to stay, if not here than with each other.)

“Come on then, Mister Clay,” Aly murmurs into his mouth. “Take me to bed.”

* * *

(“what if he wants this place back,” clayton whispers late at night. “ain’t got anywhere else to go.”

“we’ll figure it out,” aly promises. “we could always rent a room.” he hesitates, just for a moment. “or build a house.”

a smile curls on clayton’s face, slow and easy, something hopeful sparking in his chest for the first time since matthew walked back through that door. “yeah?”

“yeah,” aly says. he props himself up on his elbow, looks down at clayton’s face. “that something you’d want?”

clayton nods, reaches up and curls a hand around the back of aly’s neck, draws him in for a kiss. “more than anything.”)

* * *

The next morning comes too early. They stay in bed as long as they can, Aly’s head pillowed on his chest, legs tangled together. Then they dress, and eat a hasty breakfast, day-old bread and hard boiled eggs and coffee thick as tar.

Miriam and Arabella are waiting when they come downstairs. Miriam’s face is too pleasant, that mask they know she wears when she’s ready to kill. Arabella doesn’t even bother trying.

“I sent word to Reverend Mason, asking him to meet us here,” Miriam says coolly after they exchange the necessary pleasantries. “I thought it might be best that this conversation not happen in public, if we’re to get any truth out of him. He should be here shortly.”

“Jesus,” Clayton mutters, scowling and settling into a chair, his back to a corner. Aly sits beside him, frowning. They’re all on edge. “A bit of warning next time?”

She softens, just a bit. “Sorry, honey. We can’t keep him out of here, though. It’s a bit inevitable, so may as well rip the bandage off.”

Aly sighs, rolls his shoulders. “I hate it when you’re right. Well then – what’s the plan?”

* * *

The plan, as it were, isn’t really one at all. They have questions, and while they want them answered, they can’t force Matthew to talk, anymore than he can force them to listen.

(“are you going to be alright with this, honey?” miriam asks him softly, while aly and arabella are bickering about something or other.

he scowls and shrugs, tries to pretend that this whole thing isn’t opening a chasm in his chest. “gonna have to be.”

“no,” she says, looking at him carefully, “you don’t.”

something inside of him breaks, eases. he knows then, that if he needs matthew gone, that they will make it happen. but he’s never been willing to put his own hurts before the needs and wants of others, and all told, he doesn’t actually want matthew harmed. he's angry and hurt, but part of him aches to know what happened, to know what drove him away. to know why he chose to come back.

“i'll be alright,” he tells miriam, letting his words come gentle. it's the truth, and he feels better for speaking it. “this ain’t only about me.”)

The door creaks open and Matthew steps inside, taking off his hat and staring in awe at the sanctuary, bright and beautiful and whole around him. Arabella clears her throat, and he jumps, looks at them with that too familiar sheepishness.

“Ah – hello, everyone.” He clears his throat, gestures at the sanctuary. “You fixed it.”

Clayton bristles, and barely keeps himself from spitting on the floor. Miriam would tan his hide, if she caught him.

“Someone had to,” he growls. “All that lumber’d rot, and it was a goddamn hazard.”

Matthew raises an eyebrow like he sees through all his bullshit, but doesn’t call him out.

(he had no right to, anymore)

“Well,” Matthew says, after the silence drags too long, “it’s beautiful.”

“It is,” Miriam says primly. “Clayton did a wonderful job. Come sit with us, Reverend.”

(clayton wasn’t the only one who fixed up the church, he knows this, they all know this. but miriam is smart, and she knows how to cut deep, and by the look on matthew’s face, the flash of guilt and regret, she’s struck true)

Matthew sits.

“Now then,” Miriam says. “Welcome back to town, Reverend. You wanted to speak with us?”

(it’s clever, turning it around, making it seem like she hadn’t sent for him. it puts the ball in his court, and clayton is itching to see what he does with it, the excuses he doles out.)

“Yes,” Matthew says slowly, “I did. I… wanted to apologize, for my hasty departure. And explain, if you would let me.”

“Ain’t necessary,” Clayton drawls. “You’re a free man, Reverend, you’re welcome to leave whenever you damn well please.”

Matthew looks at him, far too knowing. “Still,” he says softly, “it wasn’t right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left.”

Clayton stares right back, refusing to break eye contact. He knows he’s being an ass. He can’t help it.

Matthew looks down at his hands. “I… I have a bounty on my head. Or had, rather. Some men had started asking about it, and it felt prudent to leave before they made trouble. So I left to take care of it, clear up some loose ends.”

“The hoopleheads who were givin’ you trouble, back when we first met?”

Clayton stares at Arabella. He hadn’t heard about that.

Matthew nods. “Yes. I… deserted, when I left the cavalry. They recognized me. I’m not sure why it took them so long, but they came snooping around again. So I ran.” He looks at Clayton. “I’m sorry. I should have told you.”

“You should have asked for help, you foolish man,” Miriam scolds. “Did you think we wouldn’t have helped you?”

Matthew looks ashamed. “I didn’t think I could risk the possibility. I’m sorry.”

“Did you really think you were the only one facin’ a bounty?” Clayton asks incredulously. Matthew stares at him again, a bit dumbfounded. He hadn’t told Matthew before he ran, but the others have known the whole story for a long time.

(he wonders, sometimes, if he and aly were destined to be – because aly knew first, and only helped protect him, while matthew ran from his own truth)

“I – I didn’t –“ Matthew fumbles his words, keeps staring, and Clayton tenses under his gaze.

“Are you back in town for a while?” Miriam asks, diverting attention away from the topic at hand. She’s smart, and Clayton knows she doesn’t trust Matthew to let him ask more questions just yet. Matthew looks away first, tearing his gaze from Clayton to re-focus on her.

“I –“ he pauses, takes a deep breath, and settles. “Yes. I’m here to stay, and hopefully take up the call again, if Deadwood will have me. The church is still mine, they never found another minister.”

Arabella bristles, leans forward in her chair. “Begging your pardon, Reverend, but this church ain’t _yours_ –“

Clayton reaches out, touches her elbow, and she stops. He knows he’s gone blank, all emotions tucked carefully out of the way, and he knows that this is ultimately what stops her.

“It’s yours,” he says, voice measured. “We’ll be out of the rectory on the ‘morrow.”

Matthew startles. “Oh, no, that’s –“ he swallows, gestures with his hand. “You, ah, you can stay there. I have no intention of kicking you out of your home. I only meant the Church itself. I’ll stay at the hotel.”

“You got the money for that?” Aly asks drily. “Last time you came to town you were dirt poor.”

(clayton knows, more than the others, that matthew hadn’t _left_ town poor. but none of them mention that fact)

“That… isn’t a problem anymore.” Matthew smiles half-heartedly. “I’ve run into some good fortune, as of late.”

“How nice,” Arabella says brightly. She sounds like she’s a step away from pulling out her knives.

(it’s a good reminder to clayton that matthew leaving hurt them all, in their own way, tearing a jagged wound that had taken a long time to close)

Matthew sighs. “What can I do to fix this?” he looks imploringly at each of them, lingering longest on Clayton. “I know I didn’t know you all that long, but you – you’re important to me. I’d like a chance to make it right.”

(clayton’s heart _burns_ )

Miriam leans back and studies him, crossing her arms. “I don’t know,” she finally says. “This isn’t the sort of thing you fix with a nice speech and some prayer, sugar.”

Matthew wilts a little. “I know.”

"You were under no obligation to stay," she says quietly. "But - we cared for you, honey. A bit of warning would've been nice.”

Matthew nods, looks down at his hands, like he’s aware of the hurt that he caused by leaving.

“But…” Miriam looks at all of them, waiting for the subtle nods, the tilt of Clayton’s chin. “We’d welcome another set of hands on jobs, provided Mister Swearengen agrees. If you still know how to fire that pistol of yours.”

“I do,” Matthew says, taking the peace offering for what it is, relief plain on his face. “I’ll let him know I’m back in town, shall I?”

“Oh honey, I’m sure he already knows.” She smiles, more genuine this time. “And I’m sure you’ll see us here.”

Matthew smiles back. “I surely hope so.”

“I think I can speak for all of us when I say that I hope you’ll let the church stay at least some of what it’s become,” Aly says. “It’s an important place, for some of the poor folk in town.”

(clayton’s stomach twists at that. they can lose the rectory, but the church is _home_ to so many people, not just them. a safe place in the chaos that is deadwood, and if they lose it -)

“I don’t intend to change that,” Matthew promises. All of them ease, relief evident. “I… heard that this had become a place of gathering, of community. I’d not want to take that from you, or the congregation.”

(aly goes still beside him at the word, and clayton remembers his reluctance to enter the church when it was clearly still a church, not this space that has yet to be defined. and he realizes that no matter what, they will lose what they have; maybe not entirely, but somewhat, the essence of it shifting to make space for god and the trappings of religion, what before had been an afterthought, a footnote. and he knows, too, that he will grieve it, as will aly. but such is the way of change, of endings and beginnings.)

“We’ll still be leaving the rectory for you.” Clayton says evenly. They’d talked about it, long into the night, planning and hoping. They’d talked about telling Matthew and the girls too, decided that it would be best to let their plans be known. “Not right away, so if you’re content at the hotel for a little while, we’d appreciate the time. But it’s high time we built a house anyhow.”

Miriam smiles at them brilliantly, and Arabella looks pleased. Matthew just looks confused. But then he seems to notice how close Clayton and Aly sitting, and the bruise high on Clayton’s throat, and his face goes carefully blank.

(he hadn’t meant to tell him that way, hadn’t meant to flaunt it. he had no interest in jealousy, but neither does he have any interest in hiding, in pretending they’re something they’re not. he and aly are together, and it’s something matthew is going to have to get used to. as miriam said - may as well rip off the bandage now, before the wound can fester with hope.)

“Oh, how wonderful,” Miriam is saying, beaming. “We’ll have to start planning, have you decided where?”

Clayton shakes his head, but it’s Aly who answers. “No, not yet. Gotta see what our options are first.”

“Ah, congratulations,” Matthew tries to smile at them, but it’s pained. “Well, I’m… I’m sure you’re all busy people, and I should probably go and have that conversation with Mister Swearengen.” He stands, hat in hand. “Thank you for your time.”

Miriam stands and steps close to Matthew. She looks up, studying him openly, then pulls him down into a hug. Clayton watches as he nearly sags into her hold, tension bleeding from his frame, eyes closing tight.

(it makes his chest hurt all over again. he knows that deep inside, he _wants_ matthew to stay, wants him to be happy, as much as he’s furious and hurt over the whole thing. he cared for him, _cares_ for him, and that’s what makes this so much worse.

he thought time would heal it, and time has, to a certain extent. but that doesn’t mean the scar doesn’t ache.)

“I’m glad you’re alright, Reverend,” she says, “we were rather worried when you left.”

“Thank you,” Matthew says softly. “I’m glad to see all of you safe, as well.”

Then he pulls away, smiles properly, and leaves.

“Well,” Miriam says, turning back to them as the doors swing closed. “That went better than I expected.”

Clayton snorts.

* * *

(“you can be with him, if you want,” aly had said, quiet, the night before, after matthew first returned. “i won’t blame you.”

clayton had looked at him incredulously. “what fucking nonsense are you sayin’? c’mere –“ he’d pulled aly against him, until aly wrapped around him like a limpet, face nestled into the crook of clayton’s neck.

“matthew and i were together three weeks. it was - nice, yeah, and i ain’t gonna deny that it was somethin’, but it wasn’t – you and me, we been doin’ this near a _year_ , aloysius fogg. you think i'd give that up for an old beau who didn’t give enough of a shit about me to tell me he was leavin’?”

aly smiles against his skin, shakes his head and burrows closer.

“i meant what i said,” clayton promises. “i ain’t goin’ nowhere. not unless you want me to. i love you, and i aim to _keep_ lovin’ you.”

“i love you too,” aly whispers to him. he smudges a kiss to clayton’s throat, then his cheek, then his lips. “and i ain’t goin’ nowhere either.”

clayton kisses him back, soft and full of promise. “good.”)

* * *

The next day, Clayton slumps down into the church proper, half-awake with coffee in hand. Aly had left early, something about a meeting, leaving him to sleep in. There is a floorboard that broke a few days earlier, and he may as well fix it, while he has the time. The church is quiet when he enters, all dappled sunlight spilling across the aisles, and it’s not until he’s half-way across the sanctuary that he realizes someone is sitting in the first pew.

Someone tall, and broad, and he’s got a hand on his pistol before he realizes it’s Matthew.

“Jesus fucking _christ_ ,” he spits, nearly dropping his coffee. “Make a little noise, would ya?”

Matthew looks guilty. “I’m sorry, I thought… I just came here to pray.”

“Right.” Clayton shakes his head, pivots on his heel. He has no desire to be alone with Matthew, not yet. It’s too soon. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Matthew stands, steps towards him with a hand outstretched. “Clayton, wait –“ he sounds so goddamn imploring that Clayton does, stopping and turning half towards him. “I… I was hoping I could have a word with you.”

Clayton sets his jaw. “Had a word yesterday, ain’t that enough?”

“Without the others.” Matthew looks heartbroken in a way he hadn’t expected. “Please.”

Clayton looks away, sighs, and nods. “Fine.” He sits on the other end of the pew and angles his body towards Matthew, then gestures with his cup. “Go on, let’s hear it.”

Matthew sighs and sits, hand rubbing at his jaw. “You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you.” Clayton’s jaw tightens, and Matthew looks away, swallows. “I guess I deserve it.” He looks back at Clayton, keeping eye contact. “I’m sorry for leaving you, Clay. I… I should’ve told you. Should’ve trusted you.”

“Yeah, you should’ve.”

“I was a coward,” Matthew says softly. “Still am, if I’m being honest.”

“Why did you come back?” Clayton asks, trying to keep his voice calm. “I didn’t think we’d ever see you again.”

Matthew huffs a laugh. “Would you believe me if I said that I missed all of you?”

“Not really.”

(and that right there is a lie. he can see it in matthew’s eyes, in the way he looks at clayton, looked at _all_ of them the day before. he knows what it feels like, to have the possibility of family ripped away from you. he can understand the draw to try and return to it.)

“That’s alright.” Matthew’s gaze is steady. “But I _am_ sorry. I wish I’d done things differently, and I hope someday you’ll forgive me.”

Clayton swallows, looks away, but doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure he can.

(words have never been his strong suit)

Silence gathers between them, awkward, but without the stifling tension. Finally Matthew breaks it, looking at him with a half-hearted smile.

"So. Aly, huh?"

Clayton looks away. "You were gone a long time, Matt."

When he looks back, Matthew is staring down at his hands, clasped loosely together. "I know," he says softly. "I'm sorry."

* * *

(“you didn’t think i’d stick around, did you,” he will say to matthew, later. “you didn’t even wait to find out.”

“…no.” matthew will draw a hand over his face, regret plain on his features. “i didn’t. i… was surprised to find you here still.”

“you asked me to stay,” he’ll repeat, because that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? matthew didn’t think he would stay, but he asked him to anyway. and clayton did, even past the point of abandonment.

“i’m sorry,” matthew will say. clayton won’t believe him, not yet.)

* * *

Matthew stays. Clayton doesn’t expect him to, if he’s being honest. He waits with baited breath for four goddamn weeks, expecting him to leave again, once it sinks in that Clayton hasn’t waited for him. 

(but its not like clayton kept him in deadwood last time, so he’s not sure why he thinks waiting would’ve made a difference now.)

But Matthew defies all expectations and stays. And he takes it slow, building the relationship with their little group in bits and pieces. Helping with the church here, going on a job with them there, playing cards and drinking whisky and being his kind, open self.

(there is a time where that makes clayton angrier, makes him remember how _good_ things with matthew were, how open and easy and affectionate he is. he finds himself snapping at everyone and everything, so he takes a day, and rides out on his own, and lets the woods and the solitude settle him. he makes peace with it, best he can; and while the anger and bitterness doesn’t disappear entirely, it does ease.

“got it out of your system?” aly asks wryly when he comes back, rage packed away where it belongs.

clayton scowls half-heartedly, lets aly draw him in with a laugh and a kiss smudged to his temple.

“shut up,” he mutters. “just. needed a day.”

“that’s alright,” aly says, letting clayton bury his face in his shoulder as he wraps him up tight. “these things are hard. take as many days as you need, love.”)

At first they are cautious, careful about making space for Matthew after the first tear he left behind had hurt so much to heal. It throws into sharp relief how close the rest of them have grown in his absence, no longer a ragtag little group forced together by employment but now a family, fierce and protective and strong. They’re not flawless, no family is. But they’ve got something precious, something good, and they will protect it to their dying breath.

(they haven’t had to die for each other yet, but it’s close, and they all know that they would if circumstances call for it. clayton doesn’t believe that Matthew will protect them, yet. he hasn’t even protected them from himself, after all)

Matthew spends a lot of time at the edges, careful not to insert himself where he’s not wanted, never pushing, never forcing himself to be a part of them. And at first, they don’t make room for him; Miriam is politely charming, Arabella is all cold smiles and scathing wit, Aly is drawled sarcasm and sardonic smiles and thinly veiled mistrust. They’re not assholes, but neither are they particularly friendly. And Clayton, well. He’s angry, and distant, barely interacting with Matthew at all, only when necessity calls for it.

But Matthew takes it graciously, let’s them keep him at a distance, lets them treat him like the stranger he is. He keeps at it, building the relationship with them slowly, proving himself to be steadfast and true. He’s even careful with the church, holding services and funerals and being present for the small growing congregation when they need him, but being careful not to force them out of the space they’ve built. And so they stay too, playing cards and watching children run around the sanctuary. Despite trepidation on the part of Aly and despite the shifts that have taken place, it works. It works better than it should. And as the days bleed into weeks, and the weeks into months, and Matthew stays and keeps working to gain their trust - they slowly, carefully, let him in.

* * *

(and if matthew is heartbroken over clayton, he hides it well, keeping it tucked away where clayton can hardly see it. he still catches glimpses, here and there, a too-long glance that darts away when he realizes clayton’s caught him staring, a hint of something sorrowful in his eyes when he sees clayton smile. clayton and aly are careful not to flaunt what they have, barely touching when they’re in public, keeping things hidden away; but matthew still looks pained when he sees them together.

clayton's not sure if it’s because of him, or because of the relationship that he and aly have, that aching want for something you don’t have. he supposes it doesn’t make a difference anyway.)

* * *

And things… soften. Miriam’s smiles warm, Arabella starts going to Matthew with theories and books and magic, and Aly starts relying on Matthew more and more.

(there is a time where aly seems to be just as angry as clayton does. he holds back while miriam and arabella start re-forging the relationship they had with matthew, watching for clayton’s reactions, keeping matthew at arm’s length.

“you don’t gotta be upset with him just because i am,” clayton tells him finally. “i ain’t gonna be pissed with you if you’re friendly.”

aly's mouth thins. “that ain’t why,” he says, “i'm upset with him because he hurt you.”

“oh,” is all clayton can think to say.

aly's mouth eases into a smile, and he gives clayton a terribly fond look, one that says he knows _exactly_ how new that idea is to clayton. this is different, than the anger they feel when the other gets hurt by someone in a physical manner. and clayton, well, he still forgets sometimes, that there are people who care about his fucking _feelings_ too.

“yes, ‘oh’. did you think i was just upset because he’s bringin’ religion back into the church?”

clayton huffs, but he tops up aly’s whisky and sidles a little closer anyhow. “alright, alright. i know i’m a dumbass.”

aly slides an arm around his shoulders. “you are, but i love you anyway.”

something in his chest warms at it, at having someone that cares about him enough to be angry on his behalf. he’d thought it was just protectiveness, but this… it’s different.

“don’t need to be angry for me, either,” he says, after a moment. “think i need to stop bein’ angry, too.”

“that’s not always how it works, clay,” aly says softly. “but alright. you wanna give him another chance, a proper one, then i'll give him one too.”

clayton turns his head, smudges a kiss to aly’s cheek in thanks. aly smiles back at him, and that’s all that needs to be said.)

Clayton and Matthew become friends again so slowly he hardly notices, his anger and hurt bleeding away at a glacial pace, replaced with a cautious affection, and a care that covers all his people. It starts with the bark of laughter at one of Matthew’s jokes, a shared grin over an argument between the other three. A warming, a thawing, an ease. Besides that moment with Aly, there is never a conscious moment where he decides to be friends, to let it go, to forgive and forget. (aly was right. that's not how it works, not for most folks anyhow.) But the tear between them mends anyhow.

(one night he claps matthew on the back after a job well done, and matthew startles, turns to look at him, careful hope in his eyes.

“you good, clay?” he asks.

clayton smiles back, broader than he does with strangers. by the look on matthew’s face he knows what it means. “yeah. yeah, we’re good.”)

And with that, their little family grows from four to five. They’re still finding their footing, still going through the growing pains, but the awkwardness, the lingering hurt and mistrust, dissolves. 

And it’s alright. It’s better than alright.

* * *

Everything changes when Aly gets stabbed. It’s not even on a job, which makes it so much worse. As much as the town is theirs (and they are hers), there are still people who hate them, who fear them and the rumours about what they can do.

Angry drunks aren’t a rarity in Deadwood. So when Aly nudges a man out of his way as they walk through the Gem, it really isn’t much of a surprise when the man turns and shouts at him, whisky on his breath. But the knife that he pulls out when he sees who it is, and the way he buries it in Aly’s gut before any of them can so much as _move_ –

(the glint of fear and anger in his eyes, the snarled “goddamn _freaks_ ”, the surprise on aly’s face, the flash of a knife and the soft, guttural exhale as the air is punched from aly’s gut as the blade disappears to the hilt in his stomach -)

Clayton puts two bullets in the man’s skull before he can even pull out the knife. Then he’s darting forward, catching Aly before he falls, grabbing his hands before he can try and pull out the knife.

“ _Bella!”_

She’s already there, face grim and determined, batting both their hands away. “We need to get him to my office. Matthew, can you –“

Clayton is strong, but Matthew is stronger, swooping in and picking up Aly with ease, ignoring the cry of pain and striding out the door. Clayton follows, already feeling himself losing contact, fear and rage making him numb.

(blood pools sticky on the floor)

Arabella’s office isn’t far, and Aly is barely conscious when they arrive, face greyed in a way that Clayton never wants to see again.

(they’ve gotten hurt, but not like this. this is a _gut_ wound, and he knows how hard those are to heal, how unlikely survival is, how they kill a man so goddamn slowly that it’d be kinder to put a bullet in his skull -)

He doesn’t hesitate for a moment. As soon as they’re through the doors, as soon as Matthew sets Aly down on the surgical table, Clayton crowds close, touches Aly’s hand, and closes his eyes.

“I want a deal, you son of a bitch.”

* * *

(the dealer grins, sharp stiletto teeth in a gaping maw, but clayton’s not afraid of him. he’s afraid of aly’s blood on his hands, and the gasp of his breath, the way he looked so goddamn _scared_ -

“i want him healed,” he grits out, slamming his hands on the table. “deal the cards you motherfucker –“

“and what would you bid?” the dealer purrs. “how much of yourself would you put on the line.”

“whatever it takes.”

the dealer’s grin grows, hands flashing with unnatural speed, cards dancing between them. he deals five cards, laying them out on the table. clayton looks at them, face passive.

it's not enough, he knows it’s not enough, so he trades in one, hopes and prays to whatever god will listen –

but they are not listening. not today.

he closes his eyes as the hope dies in his chest, desperate fear taking its place.

“you win some, you lose some,” the dealer says with a laugh. “be seein’ you, mister sharpe.”)

* * *

The backlash nearly knocks him unconscious, slamming into him with the ferocity of a tidal wave. He crumbles to the ground, white-knuckled grip on the operating table failing him as he tries to blink the black spots from his vision. His head is _pounding_ like someone took a sledgehammer to it, and he barely manages to shove himself to hands and knees before he retches, heaving out the contents of his stomach between desperate breaths.

“ _Fuck –_ Matthew, would you get him out –“

Matthew hauls Clayton to his feet, drags him out the back door so he can retch on the alley behind Arabella’s office. His feet won’t work, and he can’t make sense of it, why Matthew is taking him _away_ , but then the world flips, the nausea overwhelming and then he can’t think at all over the acid burning his throat, the backlash trying to tear his head apart.

He vomits twice more on shaking hands and knees, Matthew’s hand steady on his back. He’s murmuring something, but Clayton’s not listening, too caught up in trying to make his body obey him. When he finally manages to regain some control of his stomach he drags a hand across the back of his mouth, then shoves himself to his feet and stumbles back for the door.

“Clay, wait –“

Matthew catches his arm, easily drawing him to a halt. Clayton turns around to push him off, snarling, but Matthew just catches his other arm too, holds him steady.

“You can’t go in there if you’re going to be sick again,” Matthew says, gentle but firm. “They need the place to be as clean as possible so ‘Bells can stitch him up.”

Clayton tries to pull away again, but Matthew is strong, far stronger than he, especially with his head pounding in sickening waves, with the world spinning like it is, with the nausea still coursing strongly through him.

“I need to – Matty, it’s _Aly_ –“

(the nickname slips out, and he won’t realize until later that it’s the first time he’s used it since matthew returned, now, with all his guards down, with his world falling apart around him)

Matthew hugs him, wrapping him close in his arms, tucking him under his chin. Clayton closes his eyes, tries not to cry, and balls his bloody fists in Matthew’s shirt.

(this, too, is a first since his return)

“He’ll be okay,” Matthew murmurs. “I promise. Bella won’t let him die.”

Clayton nods, and tries to breathe.

“Okay,” he whispers, “okay.”

* * *

Matthew eventually sits Clayton on the rickety back stairs and ducks back inside, murmuring that he wants to check in and see if Arabella needs him. He comes back out with a blanket, water, and rags. The blanket goes around Clayton's shoulders, and the rags get wet with water. Matthew takes Clayton's bloody hands, cleans them with gentle fingers, careful against his sticky skin. Then he wets another one, and hands it over, watching as Clayton wipes his mouth, his face, then takes the water skin and rinses the taste of acid from his tongue.

(but first, clayton throws up three more times before the pain in his head dulls to something manageable, something that doesn’t make his thoughts staticky and slow, doesn’t make his stomach twist. he's never had a backlash this bad before, and don’t it just figure that it would happen when aly needs him most. he can almost hear the dealer laughing.)

When he finally staggers back inside, Matthew hovering at his elbow, Arabella is still carefully stitching Aly closed, Miriam acting as her aide. She snaps at Clayton to go sit, and he does, listing in his chair and trying to keep his eyes open in the too-bright light of the room. Matthew washes up and goes to help, but he’s not needed. Aly is unconscious, knocked out by some chemical concoction, and there’s not much for Matthew to do but watch and pray.

(clayton can’t pray, he tried, it didn’t _work_ so what’s the goddamn _point -_ )

He waits on tenterhooks, slumped in a chair and feeling more useless than he has in ages.

(if aly dies, while he sits and does fucking _nothing_ , then what good is he, with his fast draw and good aim and useless soul)

The sheriff shows up. Matthew goes to the door, and whatever he says must be enough to convince him that they were in the right, that Clayton should not be hauled out in irons for putting two bullets in the skull of the man who did this.

(there are benefits, to being loved by this town, as much as there are dangers too. they know that, better than most, aly lying a testament to its dangers on the table, and clayton a testament to its love)

It feels like hours, but he has no idea how long has passed when Arabella starts cleaning up, wiping iodine over the neat row of stitches in Aly’s stomach. She beckons Matthew over, gets him to help hold Aly up so they can wipe the blood from his back and wind bandages around his middle.

“Is he…”

(he can’t bring himself to actually say it, to actually ask, because what if he’s not -)

She nods without looking up. “He’s okay for now. It’ll be a long recovery, and we’ll have to watch for infection, but we got lucky.”

Relief floods through Clayton so strongly he feels his limbs go weak. He closes his eyes, breaths, and nods, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

“Thank you. God, Bells, thank you.”

“Of course.” When she finishes, and Matthew has lowered Aly back to the table, she looks back at Clayton and raises an eyebrow. “How’s the backlash?”

“Fine.” When she scowls he sighs. “Fucked my head up. Should be okay come mornin’.”

“You should get some sleep,” she advises. “He’ll be here at least a few days, until it’s safe to move him home.”

“I’m not tired,” he lies. “I can –“

Miriam turns to him, puts her hands on her hips. “You can bed down and rest, young man. Reverend, would you make up a bed on the floor? If he’s going to be too stubborn to go home.”

“There’s extra blankets in the back room,” Arabella adds. “Bring some for Aly too, would you?”

Clayton starts to protest, but Matthew is already disappearing into the back, then reappearing with an armful of blankets. He lays them out on the floor, ignoring Clayton’s grumbles, then stands and looks at him, arms crossed and eyebrow raised.

“You gonna fight me on this?”

Clayton wants to, but his limbs still feel like jelly, and his head is still a mess of throbbing pain and pressure behind his eyes.

“Take care of Aly first?” he can’t help but ask. He knows they need to move him to the low bed that’s in the corner of the room, the one that rarely gets used. It’ll be more comfortable than the cold metal surgical table, and less likely to give him bedsores. And as much as Clayton hates the idea, there’s always a chance that they’ll need the surgical table again before Aly recovers enough to be moved home.

Matthew’s face softens, and he nods, going to help Arabella and Miriam move Aly to the bed. When Aly is settled, with blankets tucked carefully in around him and a pillow under his head, Clayton pushes himself to unsteady feet and goes to him. Arabella and Miriam disappear under the pretense of finding cleaning supplies for the blood still spattered about the room, but Matthew watches him like he’s expecting Clayton to fall.

Clayton ignores him, kneeling beside the bed, touching a trembling hand to Aly’s cheek. He’s too goddamn _still_ , but he’s breathing, and his cheek is still warm under Clayton’s fingertips.

(and god but it was _close_ , it was so fucking close, he never wants it to be this close _again_ )

He leans in, closes his eyes and whispers quiet, hoping that Matthew won’t hear. “Stay alive, you bastard. You hear me? Don’t leave me. Not yet.”

Then he presses a careful kiss to Aly’s forehead, and pushes himself to his feet. And nearly falls, the world spinning in a sickening way, his whole body going lopsided.

Matthew catches his elbow, a steady rock, solid and true. He doesn’t scold, which Clayton is grateful for, but he does half-drag Clayton across the room and deposit him neatly on the nest of blankets he’d laid out for him. Instead of leaving he crouches in front of Clayton, looking so goddamn concerned it hurts.

“Are you going be okay?” he asks quietly.

Clayton scowls and looks away, fighting to keep himself from crying. “I’ll be fine,” he mutters, slumping against the wall. “Thanks. For bringing Aly here.” 

(“for take care of me,” he wants to add, but he doesn’t. he can’t.)

Matthew nods. “Of course.” He reaches out and taps Clayton’s boot, his voice going soft. “Get some rest, okay? We’ll be keeping an eye on him.”

Clayton closes his eyes and swallows, then nods. “Damn mother hens, the lot of you.”

From the half-smile on Matthew’s face when he looks at him again, he’s not fooling him.

“Someone’s got to,” Matthew says. The door pushes open, Arabella and Miriam coming back in with rags and a bucket of water and sharp smelling bleach. Matthew pushes himself to his feet, grimacing at the creak of his knees. He looks at Clayton again. “ _Rest_ , Clay.”

Then he’s gone, going to help the girls scrub blood from floorboards and door handles, from the operating table and surgical instruments.

Clayton watches for a moment, too tired to even think about getting up to help. He knows that if he did, Miriam would scold him, and likely get Matthew to _make_ him lie down. She’s never been afraid of using all the weapons at her disposal, when it comes to taking care of the people she loves. Finally he lays down, curls up in the place that Matthew made for him, and closes his eyes.

He’s asleep in seconds.

* * *

Aly lives.

Clayton wakes up the morning after he’s stabbed with a pounding headache, but none of the weakness of the night before. But Aly has developed a fever, one that he can tell Arabella is worried about, which makes him worry too. So he offers to try again with the Dealer, to see if maybe this time –

Arabella turns on him before he can even finish suggesting it. She calls him a goddamn idiot, then forbids all of them from trying any more magic, stating that she needs them in working order. They can’t afford another backlash, not like the one that took Clayton out at the knees. If someone decides to pick a fight with them, with Aly injured and one or more of them unable to fight because of their own stupidity, it could spell devastation.

So Clayton grits his teeth against his own uselessness and does what he _can_ do. He sits at Aly’s bedside, sponges down his body to try and cool the fire raging under his skin, spoons broth into his mouth when Aly is conscious enough to swallow. He and Arabella barely leave for three goddamn days, despite Miriam and Matthew trying to get them to take breaks, to at least get some goddamn sleep.

(arabella does, crashing in the back room when she knows someone is there to keep vigil. but clayton refuses, of _course_ he refuses. he can go for days without sleep, when he has to, and if he misses something because he’s snoozing in the corner – if he goes to sleep, and aly’s body starts to fail – if he _dies_ because clayton took a goddamn _rest_ – he would never forgive himself)

He refuses to sleep, which works right up until Arabella slips something in his drink after his second night awake. By the time he notices something is off it’s too late, and he’s already half-way gone. He passes out in his chair at Aly’s bedside, and wakes up back on the pile of blankets that’s still in the corner of the room, Miriam watching him rouse with a raised eyebrow and crossed arms.

“What the fuck,” he slurs, passing a hand over his face. From the length of the shadows across the room he’s slept most of the day. He scowls at Miriam, or tries to, but his body still isn’t cooperating how it should.

“You’re an idiot,” she snaps, leaning forward so that she towers over him more than she ever could if they were both standing. “And you’re going to make yourself sick. You’re damn lucky the Reverend was nice enough to put you to bed. Arabella and I’d have left you flat on your face.”

It’s a lie and they both know it. Clayton ignores the part where Matthew carried him and tries to remember what happened. He pinpoints the water Arabella had handed him, that had tasted just a touch too metallic. He’d believed her when she said it came from a flask.

(he trusts them, perhaps a touch too much. but even with this, he knows the trust won’t change.)

“Didn’t need to fuckin’ _drug_ me.”

Miriam scowls to meet him, fierce as anything. “Yes, we did, because you refuse to take care of yourself.”

“Aly needs me –“

“Aly needs you _alive_ , Clay,” she snaps. He falls silent, stung by the fury in her tone. “He needs you to be okay when he wakes up, and to not run yourself into the ground. Your suffering won’t make him heal faster.”

He blinks, looks away, swallowing past the guilt and grief rising in his throat. He doesn’t have a response, all his defenses gone.

(he doesn’t know how to stop feeling like he has to be everything, like he has to carry the world on his shoulders) 

Miriam’s voice softens. “So please, Clay. Take care of yourself. Sleep, eat, drink something other than coffee. So that when he wakes up, you can take care of him. Alright?”

He still can’t make eye contact, but he nods. She sighs, comes to crouch in front of him, press a hand to his cheek. He wraps a clumsy hand around her wrist, carefully avoids her gaze.

“We just want you to be okay,” she says quietly. “ _Both_ of you.”

“Thank you,” he rasps, and finds that he means it.

She pats his cheek, and then rises, returns to her chair at Aly’s bedside, picks up knitting he hadn’t even noticed.

“Dinner’ll be here soon. Rest until then.”

* * *

So he sleeps, and eats, and forces himself through the motions of living. The next few days are touch and go, as the fever rages through Aly’s body. He wakes up a few times, bits and pieces of consciousness, none of them particularly lucid. Clayton isn’t there each time, but _someone_ is, and that’s what matters.

(he can’t stand the thought of aly being alone with this. they’ve both been alone too many goddamn times, and he knows what its like, to wake up hurting and all alone.)

But Arabella is good at what she does, and Aly’s fever breaks. He wakes enough to grimace at them and call Clayton a “goddamn idiot, with all your fussin’”, but it doesn’t hold any heat.

(it holds instead a terrible fondness underneath the pain that lies thick in his voice, and a tinge of gratitude)

“Ain’t been fussin’,” Clayton lies, trying to smile reassuringly.

“You’re a goddamn liar,” Aly slurs. But his fingers curl around Clayton’s where he’s slipped their hands together, and that’s enough. It’s enough.

When Arabella deems Aly out of danger, they move him back to the apartment over the church, the one they _still_ haven’t moved out of. They keep meaning to. They’ve even bought a lot, but building and planning takes time, and they’ve been in short supply of that, as of late. 

So they rent a wagon, carry Aly into it, half-conscious but still cussing them out, and then up into the little rooms over the church.

And things get easier. There’s still a long way to go, and Aly’s still sleeping more often than not, but at least they can deal with it at home, in private. The others still come around, still check up on him, on Aly. Someone comes by at least twice a day, but then they _leave,_ and he’s never been so glad to be home. Home, where he can grieve on his own, and hope on his own, and still know that they’ll be there if he needs them.

(he loves them, he _does_ , but god, four days without a moment of reprieve from their fussing and watching and reproach has been driving him up the fucking wall.)

But Aly is home, and he is healing.

Things will be okay. They will.

(and if he still keeps praying to the god he doesn’t believe in, well, no one is around to hear him anyway)

* * *

A hand on his shoulder startles him out of a half-asleep stupor. He’s slumped in a chair at Aly’s bedside, head nodding towards his chest. Aly’s been home for three days, and he tries to sleep, he _does,_ but it’s just so fucking hard to trust that he’ll be okay when Clayton wakes up. He’s exhausted in the way of someone who hasn’t slept properly in days, just snatches here and there, brain sluggish and slow.

(he keeps waking up from nightmares, startling awake from where he’s sleeping curled on the floor beside aly. he doesn’t trust himself to sleep in bed with him, doesn’t believe that he won’t curl around him in the night and mess up his stitches. aly would call him an idiot for it, but aly’s not awake enough to catch him. and if his back aches from it, no matter. he'll heal, he always does.) 

It’s Matthew who’s peering down at him, frowning a little.

“Miriam told me you weren’t sleeping again,” he chides, gentler than Clayton wishes he would. “Or eating. I thought we’d been over this.”

Clayton scowls. “I’m fine.”

Matthew raises an eyebrow. “Sure you are.” He loops a hand under Clayton’s arm, draws him to his feet with easy strength, and pulls him stumbling to the door. “Come on. I drew you a bath, you can clean up, then dinner and bed. On the couch, not that bullshit you call a mat. I’ll watch Aly for you.”

“I don’t need –“ Clayton’s words cut off in a yawn, and he scowls harder when Matthew tuts and pushes him into the kitchen.

“Go, Clay. You don’t want ‘Bells to drug you again, do you?” his voice gentles. “Dinner’s under a plate on the counter. I’ll call you if he wakes up, alright?”

Clayton wavers, then grits his teeth and wipes a hand over his face. He needs to shave. “Fine.”

* * *

Clayton stumbles back into the bedroom some hours later, wiping the grit of sleep from his eyes. Matthew looks up when he enters, peering at him through tiny spectacles, a book open in his lap. Clayton blinks at him, then looks at Aly.

(he’s so goddamn still, lying there in the bed, washed out and far too goddamn quiet. aly is a restless sleeper, all mumbled sleep talk and limbs thrown over clayton, curling ever closer in the night. to see him like this hurts, makes it so goddamn clear how close they were to losing him, how close they are still.)

He clenches his jaw, and drags the extra chair to the foot of the bed, settles in it to maintain his vigil.

“You can go home,” he mutters to Matthew, “I’m good now.”

Matthew frowns, but closes his book. “You didn’t sleep very long.”

Clayton shrugs, wipes a hand over his face. “Can’t really sleep much right now,” he admits.

“Understandably.” Matthew looks at Aly, then back at Clayton. “You sure you don’t want company?”

Clayton swallows, nods. “You been here a while. I’m sure you got things to do.”

“Nothing that can’t wait.”

Clayton looks at Aly, shakes his head. “Thank you. It’s a kindness. But I’m alright. Go home, Reverend.”

Matthew scans his face, then nods, pushes himself to his feet. He looks at Aly, lying so close and still in the bed in front of him. Then, to Clayton’s surprise, he reaches out and cups Aly’s face, thumb stroking his cheek.

(and in that moment, his calm demeanor breaks, just for a split second. but that is still enough time for clayton to realize that he looks nearly as heartbroken as clayton feels, that he looks unsure, devastated at this shadow of aly lying unconscious on the bed)

Then he pulls away, and turns to Clayton, uncertainty on his face. He takes a step towards him, opens his mouth, almost like he wants to say something, like he wants to reach out and pull Clayton into a hug, or kiss the top of his head goodbye the way he used to.

But then he clenches his fist, lets his hand fall to his side. He shakes his head, and steps towards the door. “Goodbye, Clayton. I’ll be praying for him.”

Clayton turns, leans so he can watch as Matthew goes to the door and pulls his coat and hat on. Before he can leave Clayton calls out to him.

“Matty?”

Matthew turns, looks at him.

(there are so many things he wants to say, but he doesn’t know how, doesn’t know if he should, doesn’t know what it means)

“Thank you,” he settles on, quiet and sincere. Matthew gives him a smile, small but genuine, and nods jerkily. Then he steps out the door, pulling it closed behind him.

Clayton turns back to watch Aly, thoughts whirring in his head.

* * *

Aly heals. It’s long, and slow, and leaves him grumpier than a wet cat. Clayton takes it in stride, doing his best not to snipe back, to take it all in good graces. Lord knows that he’s been on the other side more often than not, and if Aly can put up with him and all his bullshit, then the very least Clayton can do is return the favour.

But still, there are times when taking it in good graces means that he has to walk away, because Aly _can’t_ right now and they both need a moment to breathe.

(always with a nod, and a tap on the bedside table, and a “gonna let you have a moment, i'll be back.” because even with this, he promised not to leave, not to abandon aly and leave him alone.

he fucked up, once, the first time they had a row and aly was hurt enough that he couldn’t follow. he'd left without a word, going just out of town, sitting in the woods for nearly three hours before crawling back.

he’d found aly crying at the kitchen table, whiskey in hand. his face had crumpled when he’d seen clayton, and so clayton had swept him into a hug, let aly grip him close with shaking hands, bury his face in clayton’s shoulder.

“i thought you’d left,” aly had said, “jesus, clay, i thought i'd driven you away –“

“you couldn’t,” clayton murmured, cradling the back of his head with one hand, pressing a kiss to his head. “i shouldn’t a left. i'm sorry, love.”

“i'm sorry too.”

they made a plan, after that. they knew that they’d need to step out, that sometimes they would need to walk away. but they would always, always promise to come back, leaving the other with that small bit of reassurance.

it worked, for the most part.)

It’s in the second week when Matthew finds him pacing at the foot of the stairs leading to their apartment, cigarette between his teeth, trying to settle his skin, trying to reason himself out of being upset, out of the irritation itching at his bones. He looks at Clayton, raises an eyebrow, puts his hands in his pockets.

“Why don’t you go take the day? I can stay with Aly, keep him company.”

Clayton grits his teeth, keeps pacing. “Thought you were leadin’ prayers or some such shit today.”

Matthew shrugs. “It can wait. I’m sure folks will understand.” He leans against the wall, a picture of nonchalance. Clayton knows it’s bullshit, can read the concern sitting in his shoulders. “Might do the two of you some good, to have a day apart.”

Clayton weighs it, measures it. He runs a hand through his hair, takes another drag on the cigarette.

(and ain’t that telling, when he hasn’t smoked in months)

“You sure?”

Matthew nods, smiles. “Go. We’ll be fine.”

It’s hard to not feel like it’s an abandonment, like it’s a shirking of duties, but he knows that if he goes back in now, they’ll be fighting again in twenty minutes.

(and he’s trying, to let other people help, to let himself lean on them as they lean on him)

“Yeah. Yeah, alright.” He hesitates, remembering the flash of sorrow on Matthew’s face, but asks it anyway (he’d made a promise). “Tell him I love him? And that I’ll be back?”

But Matthew’s face just softens. “Of course.” He reaches behind his back, pulls out his revolver, the one that Clayton never forgets he carries. He holds it out, butt first. “Here.” At Clayton’s quizzical look he nods at Clayton’s waist. “You don’t have your guns.”

Clayton mutters a curse, tugs his hat down lower.

(he wonders when he began to feel safe enough to step outside without them. deadwood ain’t a safe town, he _knows_ that, and he should be jumping at shadows especially with aly lying injured –

but instead he's here, pacing outside the church, no gun belt in hand and no weapon to speak of. and what does that say about him, about this town, about his belief that they will stay whole?)

But he takes Matthew’s gun, tucks it into his own waistband. “Thank you.”

“Of course. Come back safe, alright?”

* * *

(as he walks away, he realizes that he trusts matthew again, deep in his bones, that he will keep aly safe, that he will watch over him)

* * *

He rides out into the hills, lets the solitude settle his soul, returning only when the sun dips below the horizon. When he steps back into their little apartment, he hears the sound of Matthew’s belly laugh, and Aly’s good-natured snark. He closes his eyes, lets the sound wash over him.

(and wonders what it would be like, to always come home to this)

Aly grins in relief when he comes into their bedroom, tilts his chin up for a kiss hello. Clayton’s not sure when they stopped hiding the small affections from Matthew. So he ducks down, presses a careful kiss to Aly’s lips, keeping it short and simple and sweet.

“I’m sorry,” Clayton says when he pulls away, before the words can stick in his throat. “I was bein’ an asshole.”

“I think that’s my line, darlin’. I understand needin’ to clear your head.”

Clayton shakes his head, settles in the chair Matthew shoves in his direction. “You got stabbed, you’ve got a good reason to be an ass. I don’t.”

“Ain’t puttin’ up with me reason enough?”

“Aly, you ain’t a hardship,” Clayton says, soft-like. “You ain’t.”

Aly looks down at his cards.

A floorboard creaks, and they both look back to see Matthew standing, trying to move quietly away.

“Sorry, I’m intruding,” he says, a flash of a smile. “I’ll just –“

Clayton shakes his head, relaxes his shoulders. “Nah, stay, Rev’rend. We’re the ones who are bein’ rude, shovin’ our shit in your face.” Aly makes a noise of agreement, murmurs an apology. But Matthew still looks unsure, so Clayton smiles to reassure him and reaches out, picks up the deck, brushes his knuckles along Aly’s leg. “Y’all gonna deal me in?”

Matthew smiles back, rolls his eyes. But he sits back down, picks up his hand. “Only if you promise not to cheat.”

“Aly’s been swindlin’ you, huh?”

“Hey, I would _never –“_

* * *

Matthew’s over more often, after that. He checks in on them, brings them food, shoes Clayton out the door when they’re both in a mood. He doesn’t stay past his welcome, but he’s present in a way he hasn’t been before.

“Let me,” he says, and “I’m happy to help,” and “whatever you need.”

He shows, over and over again, what Clayton caught a glimpse of on his face so many nights ago.

Matthew loves them.

(and if that doesn’t make a pit of yearning open in clayton’s chest. he knows that he misses matthew in a way he tries not to acknowledge. misses the closeness they shared, the intimacy, the potential. and sure, misses the physical aspects of being with him too. but he cherishes this thing with aly more, the life that they’ve built together. he’s not one to stray, whether through a physical dalliance or an emotional one.

but if matthew is in love with aly – if matthew is in love with _both_ of them – and if aly returns his affections –

then maybe it wouldn’t be straying at all. maybe, just maybe -)

* * *

He waits another month, until Aly is healed up proper, watching Matthew, watching Aly, watching them both watch each other. He's always been observant, good at seeing what others don't notice. And for all that Arabella likes to fondly remind him of his idiocy, he's not stupid. He sees the flashes of longing on Matthew’s face, and a loneliness that makes his heart ache. And he sees the thinly veiled interest on Aly’s, and the fondness that crinkles the edges of his eyes. 

(it makes him hope that it might actually be possible, to have them both. matthew has proved himself, again and again. that they can rely on him, that he is _theirs_ , part of their family forged out of spilt blood and the spark of magic in their veins. and he wants matthew, wants them _both_. he knows that he could fall in love with him, given the time, and the permission to let his heart open for someone else.)

One night, over whisky, he takes the time to tell Matthew about his bounty, about his past. Not because he has to, but because he needs Matthew to know, to understand, if there’s to be any possibility that they can do this. He carries many secrets, but this will not be one. He won’t let it be something shameful.

(and back then, before matthew left, they hadn’t had the time to be honest, to let the secrets out; but now they do, they have all the time in the world. and some part of him knows, with all his being, that they will _need_ honesty from one another, just as they will need trust, and care, and the gentleness they all seem to crave.)

And Matthew, with his kind heart and gentle words, responds as Clayton had always hoped he would. With deep understanding in his eyes, and a murmur of thanks, for trusting him with the story.

Clayton makes up his mind then and there.

Even so, it takes him another three weeks to broach the subject with Aly, once he’s finally acknowledged his own feelings, and made proper sense of what he believes to be theirs. He’s sure that Aly knows he’s been brooding, but he’s patient with Clayton.

(he always is)

So he shores up his courage, and brings it to him, trusting him with this as with all things. 

“I think Matthew might be in love with you,” is what he finally says to Aly one morning, curled up together in bed.

Aly raises an eyebrow at him. “I think you’re the one he’s in love with, darlin’.”

Clayton shakes his head, stubborn. “Not just me. The way he looks at you, when he thinks you’re not watching. He loves you. And not like he loves the girls, or the congregation.”

“Huh.” Aly rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. After a beat he looks at Clayton, then draws him in. Clayton settles on his chest, chin propped up on his hands so it doesn’t dig into Aly’s sternum, and watches him think. A warm hand lays low on his spine, draws patterns on his skin. When Aly makes eye contact again he’s nearly boneless, content and warm, happy to wait. “Well, what do you propose we do about it?”

“What do _you_ propose we do about it?” Clayton asks carefully. He doesn’t want to risk ruining this thing between them, and as much as he couldn’t keep Matthew’s obvious affections to himself, as much as a quiet yearning has settled under his breastbone, he can’t be the one that suggests they return them.

(he knows that aly loves him enough to follow whatever he requests, but if they are to pursue matthew, or bring him in, then it needs to be something aly _wants_ , not just something he’s putting up with for clayton’s sake.)

Aly’s eyes are soft when he looks at him, like he understands exactly why Clayton turned it back on him. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “I ain’t gonna deny that I find him handsome. That I… enjoy his company. But I think you already know that, don’t you.”

Clayton doesn’t bother denying it, just gives Aly a lop-sided smile.

“I’d be amenable, if you are,” Aly finally murmurs. “I care for him, but I ain’t the one with a history there, love. I don’t want to push it.”

(he kind of wants to laugh at how goddamn careful they are with each other, when it comes to something like this. but he supposes it’s a sign of how important this relationship is to each of them, that they’d rather deny themselves something with matthew than break up what they have with each other.)

Clayton nods, chin digging into his hands. “I know. I don’t want to push it either.” Aly’s other hand runs through his hair, and Clayton tilts his head into the softness of his palm. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You won’t,” Aly promises. “If it doesn’t work out, it’ll be on all of us, not just you.”

Clayton thinks for a moment, Aly waiting patiently, hands gentle on his skin. “Do you think he’s going to leave again?”

Aly shrugs. “I don’t know. All we can do ask him if he’ll stay, and trust what he tells us.” He tugs gently on Clayton’s hair. “Things can change, out here. You know that.” He softens, though, asking what Clayton almost wishes he wouldn’t. “Is having something with him again worth the risk of heartbreak?”

(and he wishes he could say yes easily, wishes he could throw himself into this with abandon, but he’s not a fool, and he has at least the smallest semblance of self-awareness. he knows how much of a wreck he was last time, how much of a wreck he’d be again. he knows he’d survive – he always does – but he doesn’t know if the two of them, if clayton-and-aly as a unit, would. he hopes, though. that they would be strong enough, that they would endure.)

“I’m not sure,” he murmurs. “But I hope it will be. I’d like to try, anyway.”

“I hope so, too.” Aly cranes his neck forward, kisses the tip of Clayton’s nose, grinning when Clayton wrinkles it at him as he relaxes onto the pillow once more. “Should we talk to him, then?”

Clayton sighs. “Probably. Seems the adult thing to do.”

“Probably. He might object if you try to fuck him without talking first.”

Clayton tries to swat him, but Aly dodges with a grin. “If _we_ try to fuck him, Aly.”

Aly laughs, and leans down to kiss him proper. “Yeah, alright, if _we_ try to fuck him.”

* * *

(“i think he’s lonely,” clayton confesses, a few days later. they decided to give it a week, mull it over, see if they still feel the same.

aly nods, hands him the gun oil and a stained cloth. clayton knows he’s been watching matthew, thinking about him, making his own judgements on the matter. he’s been more open, about his interest, and it’s beautiful to see, as much as clayton’s not sure that matthew has noticed it.

“not that surprising. think i’d be lonely too.”

clayton nods, feeling that old spark of guilt, and focuses on his guns. “yeah.”

aly taps the table, tilts his head when clayton makes eye contact. “that’s not how i meant it, love. it wasn’t your responsibility then, and even though you care for him, it isn’t now either.”

“sure feels like it,” clayton muttered.

“his choices were his own,” aly reminds him, gently. “and as much as you want him to be happy, it’s not on you to make him feel better for where those choices led.” he rests his bare foot against clayton’s socked one, that tiny bit of contact settling him more than any words. “i’d like to help him be a little less lonely, if we can. and hopefully we can even make him happy. but we don’t owe it to him. alright?”

clayton breathes, nudges aly’s foot back, and nods. “yeah, alright.”)

* * *

A week and a half later they invite Matthew to dinner, because that seems proper, and the best way to have a quiet conversation without risk of interruption or raised eyebrows from Miriam and Arabella. It’s Clayton who asks him, pulling him aside after a job one day.

“Hey, Rev’rend, hold up –“

Matthew stops, looks at him, frowns. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, just –“ he’s nervous, and he’s sure Matthew can tell. “Aly and I were hopin’ you’d join us for dinner tomorrow. We… had something we wanted to talk to you about. Without the girls.”

“You… don’t need to have me to dinner, Clayton. Really.” He looks reluctant at the formal invitation in a way that Clayton wasn’t expecting. “Whatever it is, you can just ask me.”

Clayton shakes his head. “We kind of – look, it’s just – we’d like to have you over. Proper like. Please?”

Matthew hesitates, some indecision on his face, then sighs. “Alright. What time?”

“Come ‘round about six?” He gives Matthew what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “Promise it ain’t bad.”

Matthew smiles back, resignation in his eyes. “I’ll take your word for it. I should –“ he waves at the others, and steps ahead, leaving Clayton puzzling over his reaction.

(he has a sudden flash of anxiety, of ‘what if I was wrong, what if this is a mistake, what if what if what if –‘)

But then Matthew looks back at him, and he sees the barest hint of longing flash across his features, gone almost before it registers. And he knows, then, that he is not wrong, certainty settling heavy and warm between his shoulder blades.

* * *

The next day he frets and scowls about the house until Aly drags him into the kitchen with a fond look of exasperation. He sets Clayton to kneading dough for biscuits, then rolling pastry for pies. It doesn’t totally diminish the anxiety sitting heavy in his chest, but it does give him something else to focus on.

“It’ll be fine, love,” Aly says as he preps the chicken. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

(“he can leave again,” clayton wants to say. but he doesn’t, keeps it contained, just scowls to ease aly’s mind.)

“We could give him a heart attack,” he mutters, “askin’ a man of the cloth to sleep with not one man, but two.”

Aly snorts. “Pretty sure that if you didn’t scare him off by givin’ him a blowjob behind the Gem, that us askin’ him to a little bit o’ romance ain’t gonna do it.”

Clayton gapes at him. “How the fuck did you know about that?”

“You weren’t _nearly_ as subtle as you thought you were,” Aly says with a grin. He comes over and kisses the scowl off Clayton’s mouth, laughing at him. “That’s alright, though. Next time, we can _both_ give him a blowjob behind the Gem.”

Clayton’s the one who snorts, this time. But he still hums in agreement, caught up in the idea. “Yeah, alright.”

* * *

Matthew arrives five minutes late, which Clayton wasn’t expecting. It’s not like Matthew, and Clayton wonders again at the reluctance he showed at the invitation, if maybe they’re making a mistake. But Matthew is here, and he can’t live with himself if he doesn’t at least ask the question that’s been burning in his mind.

Matthew is polite enough to wait until they’re done eating before he crosses his arms and looks at them, one eyebrow raised.

“Want to tell me why it is that you asked me to dinner?”

Clayton looks at Aly, then back at Matthew. “We were hopin’ to ask you somethin’. Or – give you a proposal, rather, and see what you make of it.”

Matthew keeps his eyebrow raised. “I’m listening.”

(matthew’s been too pleasant, he realizes, but he looks like he’s gearing for something awful, for them to kick him while he’s down, to drive him out of town. the anxiety stirs again, along with a fearsome need to explain, to make matthew understand)

“I’ve noticed you lookin’ at us,” Clayton says, more calmly than he feels. “At Aly, and me, and both of us together. In a… romantical sense. Like you want us.” Matthew goes still, face blank. “But I ain’t sure if you’ve noticed that we’ve been looking back.”

Matthew stares at him, then at Aly as the other man clears his throat.

“We wanted to make our affections known. And we were… kind of hopin’ you might be interested in joinin’ us.”

A muscle in Matthew’s jaw jumps. “As what – a dalliance?” He shakes head. “I’ve got no interest in being someone’s bedwarmer. Thank you, but no.”

“Christ, no,” Clayton says, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “I mean, sure, I ain’t gonna deny we wantin’ you in our bed, but - we like you, Reverend. We want to – fuck, I dunno, date you, court you, have you as a beau –“

Incredulity grows on Matthew’s face, his gaze jumping back and forth between them. “Both of you?”

“Yeah,” Aly says, smiling softly at him. “Both of us. We _like_ you, Matt.”

(of course it would be aly’s softness, the kind that clayton adores, that draws the guardedness from matthew. and how beautiful, to watch the hope bloom in his eyes)

“I –“ Matthew opens his mouth, then snaps it shut, runs a hand through his hair. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious,” Aly reassures him. “We aren’t fucking with you. Promise.”

“And you’re… you’re sure about this? About me? Even after -”

“You’ve proved yourself tenfold, Matt,” Clayton says softly, cutting him off. “I trust that if you ain’t interested, that if you ain’t willing to give this an honest shot, that you’ll tell us now.” He smiles unsurely. “I… hope that you’ll stay, this time.”

Matthew swallows, keeps his gaze steady, face open and honest. “I intend to. For as long as long as you’ll let me.”

Clayton nods, satisfied. “That’s good enough for me.”

“Good enough for me too,” Aly says. He grins at Clayton, then back at Matthew, bright and shameless. “Gotta admit that I was a bit worried you’d just tell us to fuck off.”

Matthew shakes his head, still looking dumbfounded. “I wouldn’t. I – I had no inclination that this is what you’d ask but –“ he seems lost, fumbling through words, settling finally again on “- I wouldn’t.”

“What did you think we wanted to talk to you about?” Clayton asks curiously. “You seemed… unsure.”

Matthew huffs a rueful laugh, rubs at his chin. “I thought you were going to ask me to perform your wedding.”

(he understands, then, the forced politeness, the resignation, the sorrow lingering behind matthew’s eyes. that matthew thought they would ask that of him, knowing that once it could have been _them_ -)

“Jesus, no,” Clayton says, shaking his head. “I ain’t gonna deny that I can be a bit of an asshole –“ Aly and Matthew both snort, and he glares half-heartedly at them as he continues. “- but – god, I wouldn’t -“

“I’d kind of deserve it if you did,” Matthew says softly, apologetically, giving him a half-smile.

“None of that,” Aly says firmly, sounding so much like Miriam it’s almost funny. “If we do this, there ain’t gonna be no grudges or debts, understood? Let bygones be bygones.”

“It’s forgiven,” Clayton says softly. “Has been for a while.”

Matthew looks at Clayton, measures the truth in his eyes, then does the same to Aly. Then he nods, slowly, and settles. “Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

It’s Aly who stands, coming around the table to stand at Matthew’s elbow, gazing down at him. Matthew turns to meet him, looking so terribly unsure.

“I’d like to kiss you now,” Aly says, touching Matthew’s cheek. “That alright?”

Matthew nods again, a jerky thing, all tightly strung wire and fragile china. Aly cups Matthew’s jaw, tilts his chin up, and leans down to kiss him. Matthew gasps like he’s taking his first breath of air in years, hands flying to Aly’s hips, pulling him close. 

(clayton isn’t sure he’s ever seen anything so beautiful, as the two of them together)

He watches them, watches Aly hum and Matthew keen, learning the taste of each other’s mouths. But he waits until Aly pulls away, until Matthew looks at him, pupils blown and lips bitten red, dazed as can be. Then he stands, circles around to Matthew’s other side, and pulls him into a kiss.

And _oh_ , this is what it feels like, to come home again.

Matthew feels like the warmth of a hearth fire, like the slow curl of a smile, like aged whiskey on a hot summer’s day. He’s so goddam familiar, all strong jaw and stubble under Clayton’s hand, and it takes only a moment for Clayton to remember what he likes, to kiss him deeper, tilting to meet him just so. Matthew groans, deep in his chest, and he hears an answering moan from Aly. When he breaks it, looks at him, Aly is watching them with hooded eyes, a curled smile on his face, the cat that got the cream.

“I –“ he stops, catches the words before they can fall out, leans down to kiss Matthew again. “God,” he says when he finally pulls back, a little broken. “I missed you.”

Matthew closes his eyes, leans his forehead against Clayton’s belly. One broad hand finds the small of Clayton’s back, keeping him in place. Matthew’s other hand goes to his own shoulder, to clasp Aly’s hand where it rests on his easy on his frame.

(like a lifeline, like an anchor, like he doesn’t dare let go -)

“I missed you too,” Matthew whispers. Clayton exchanges a look with Aly, then curls one hand around the back of Matthew’s neck, settles the other in between his shoulder blades, holding him close. Aly steps in, a line at Matthew’s back, so that he’s secure between them. So that there’s no mistake that they’re here, _both_ of them. “So much, Clay. I can’t – I don’t even –“

“It’s alright,” Aly murmurs, when Matthew chokes on his words. He ducks down, presses a kiss to the spot behind Matthew’s ear. “You don’t have to be alone anymore, Matt.”

Matthew takes a shuddering breath, then relaxes all at once, nodding into the softness of Clayton’s belly, the warmth of Aly behind him. “Okay,” he whispers, “okay.”

(they have more to discuss. hopes, worries, and the boundaries each of them will need. and they will discuss them, over and over, as many times as they need. this relationship will not be without faults, without bumps along the way. no relationship is. they each carry their own baggage, their own weights, and it will take time to settle in.

but for now, they draw matthew up, and take him to bed, and lay all their fears to rest.)

* * *

(“why?” matthew will ask him, later, when they have a moment alone. “why trust me again?”

clayton will shrug, smile, let their knees rest together. “ain’t you the one who’s always talkin’ about redemption?” matthew flushes, drops his gaze to his knees. clayton softens his voice, reaches out and slips his fingers into the palm of matthew’s hand. “let it be possible for you too, darlin’.”)

* * *

They’re happy, is the thing. They take it – not slowly, but carefully, letting it build naturally. As much as it feels like coming home, some part of Clayton is still cautious, and he can tell that Matthew is, too. Aly follows their lead, never pushing, never encouraging more than all of them are comfortable with. And slowly, over the days and weeks that follow, the cautiousness slips away into something comfortable, something that Clayton hopes will last.

Matthew spends time with both of them, but he also spends time with each of them on their own. Going for rides with Clayton, or playing cards with Aly. Building the relationships with each of them as surely as they build the relationship between all three of them. They grow stronger for it, closer, intimacy growing as fast and beautiful as desert flowers after a storm.

(and clayton is so goddamn grateful for it. he was worried that he would be the glue holding them all together, the only common factor. and as much as he knows that that wouldn’t be a _bad_ way for things to be, it isn’t what he wants. he wants this to be equal.)

And it goes well. It goes so goddamn well that Clayton can hardly believe it, all three of them falling into place like puzzle pieces, like tumblers on a lock, meant to be together.

(he’s not _quite_ sappy enough to believe in fate, but sometimes he wonders.)

“What’re you smilin’ about?” Aly asks one evening, tugging playfully on a curled lock of his hair. For once Clayton doesn’t scowl just to be contrary, turns and kisses Aly instead.

“Just… glad it all worked out,” he settles on.

Aly’s smile turns soppy, and he kisses Clayton back. “Me too, love. He’s rather wonderful, isn’t he?”

“I’m right _here_ ,” Matthew says, but he doesn’t sound disgruntled. He turns at the little desk they’ve squished into the sitting room for him, and his face turns soft, too. He rolls his eyes when Clayton beckons him, but stands, crosses over to their little sofa, lets first Aly then Clayton pull him in for a kiss.

“We know,” Clayton murmurs between kisses, “you’re exactly where we want you to be.”

* * *

(he didn’t realize, before they started all of this, how much he would love seeing them be in love with each other. seeing them talk, laugh, delight in each other’s presence as much as they do in his; it’s a beautiful thing, and he wants to experience it, to witness it, over and over and over again, as often as he can.)

* * *

“Did you know that a triangle is the strongest shape?” Arabella says to him one day, out of the blue.

Clayton looks at her in confusion, until he notices the knowing look in her eyes, the small smile playing around her mouth. “There a particular reason you’re tellin’ me this?” he asks drily.

“Just thought you might want to know,” she says back, flashing a proper grin, then winking shamelessly, so there’s no missing her meaning. “Three sides, y’know. That’s what makes it so strong.”

“Thanks,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Didn’t realize you’d noticed.”

She nudges his shoulder. “Hard not to. You all seem… happier, these days.”

“I think we are,” he says cautiously, afraid to chase it away by speaking it aloud. “We’re… lucky.”

She gives him a kind look, then turns back to her work. “Aren’t we all, Mister Sharpe.”

A few minutes pass before he speaks again. “Does Miriam know?”

Arabella grins gleefully. “I don’t think so. I ain’t told her yet, I’m waitin’ to see how long it takes her to realize.”

“She’s gonna skin you alive when she realizes you knew and didn’t tell her.”

“It’ll be worth it. You know how rare it is for me to know gossip before she does?” she chortles, then elbows him in his side. “Besides, she’s gonna be even madder at _you_ , for not tellin’ her first.”

“Well, shit.”

* * *

“You should have told me, you _asses_ ,” is what Miriam says, when she finally realizes. It takes more time than Clayton had expected, but he supposes even she has to slip up, sometimes. She smacks his arm, then hugs him fiercely. 

“Can’t blame us for wantin’ a little bit of privacy,” Clayton grumbles, rubbing at his arm. He grins though, accepts another hug.

“I can blame you just _fine._ ”

Aly laughs at her ire, deep and rich, but picks her up and swings her around when she comes for him next.

“Be happy for us, Miss Miriam,” he says, grinning broad and shameless. “We were gonna tell you someday, I promise.”

She rolls her eyes, but starts beaming anyway. “Of _course_ I’m happy for you.” She goes to Matthew, pulls him down into a hug, comically small in his embrace. “You three deserve all the love you can get.”

“Thank you, Miriam,” Matthew murmurs.

She kisses his cheek. “Of course, Reverend. Oh, I’m so _glad_.”

Clayton hides a smile behind his hand. “Truth be told, I’m still surprised ‘Bells didn’t tell you.”

Miriam whirls on Arabella, who bolts for the door, cackling laughter trailing behind her. “You _knew_?”

“Well,” Aly says, watching Miriam follow her, spitting curses through a smiling mouth, “that went well.”

* * *

“Are you happy?”

The question falls from his mouth before he realizes it, one evening, crowded around their small dinner table. Matthew looks at him, eyes liquid warm, while Aly smiles soft and sure.

“Yeah, darlin’,” Matthew says, Aly nodding along. “Are you?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, feeling more sure than he has in his life, “I am.”

* * *

(when they finally trade “i love you” between the three of them it’s a quiet thing, a sleepy morning in bed curled around each other. clayton says it to matthew first, purely by accident, voice all quiet, awed surprise. aly follows after, smudging a kiss to matthew’s shoulder along with the words, then his chin, his cheek. hands curled over warm skin, the curve of his lips marking a smile. there’s something raw in matthew’s eyes and his voice when he responds, when he rolls clayton over and kisses him breathless, then pins aly next.

“i love you too, god, i love you –“)

* * *

He comes home one evening to find them dancing in the kitchen. Palms curled together, Aly’s arm around Matthew’s shoulders, Matthew’s hand at the small of his back. Soft and slow, gentle circles on the wooden floor, little table shoved out of the way. They have no music besides Aly’s singing, quiet and lovely, voice rich as honey.

He slips into the doorway, leans against it and watches them, heart blooming so full it hurts.

(and how are they so beautiful, how is he so lucky -)

When Matthew notices him he smiles, presses his cheek against Aly’s hair. He holds out a hand, and Clayton goes, finds his place at Aly's back, trading a soft kiss with Matthew over his shoulder. Aly looks back when they part, accepts the kiss to his cheek with a smile. 

“Welcome home, love.”

* * *

(and clayton is lucky, he’s so goddamn _lucky_. that he could find not just one lover, but two, and that he could _keep_ them –

he's not used to getting to keep things. he’s not used to things being this good. but he’s learning – that things can be good, that he gets to be loved, and that people will stay. and sometimes, sometimes, the happiness takes his breath away.)

* * *

“Matty?”

Matthew puts down his bible, peers at them through those wire-framed glasses.

(the ones that make him look older, distinguished, and more bookish than matthew admits. the ones that clayton _adores_ , if he’s being honest.)

“Yes?”

Clayton resists the urge to kick his feet from where he sits atop the counter, Aly chopping vegetables at his side. No matter how many times Aly gripes, it’s still his favourite spot in the kitchen, when he’s not working beside him at the counter.

“Want to move in with us?”

The surprise on his face is a beautiful thing. “Really?

Clayton nods, snags a piece of carrot from Aly’s cutting board, dodges the swat he gets. “Yeah. You already basically live with us, but…” he shrugs. “We thought it might be nice to make it official.”

Matthew smiles at him, soft, like he knows all the things Clayton’s not saying, like he understands the simplification. “I’d love to.” Then he hesitates. “You sure there’s room?"

Aly huffs, elbowing Clayton, then turns around. “What Clayton _meant_ to ask is – do you want to build a house with us? So we can all move in together proper-like?”

If Matthew had looked surprised before, he was well into flabbergasted territory now. But a smile curls across his face, slow, like he’s trying to contain it and failing.

“A house?” the smile breaks out into a proper beam, all the light of Matthew’s joy shining upon them. “Lord – are you sure?”

“We uh –“ Clayton grins back, scratches at his beard. “We been talking about a house for ages. And we maybe already had the plans drawn up. Bedroom big enough for three, and we added a study. For you.”

“You –“ Matthew shakes his head. He’s up and across the room in a split second, pulling them both into a hug. “I can’t believe _you_ , you sneaky fucker –“ he kisses Clayton’s cheek, then Aly’s, as the sound of Aly’s laughter at his delight washes over them. “Thank you.”

Clayton turns, grins against Matthew’s cheek, rests his forehead on his temple. “We love you, you bastard.”

Matthew laughs, turns into him, kisses him proper. “And I love you, too.” Then Aly, who’s still laughing, until Matthew kisses it out of his mouth. “Both of you.”

* * *

(later, when they have a house, and _oh_ what a beautiful house it is – clayton will turn to matthew, touch him on the wrist.

“thank you for staying,” he’ll say softly.

matthew will turn into him, loop an arm around his shoulders and smudge a kiss to his temple.

“thank you for letting me.”)

* * *

“If we’re gonna have a house, can I get chickens?” Clayton asks that night, curled up in bed between them. The bed in the rectory is small, and they’re all squished together, close and warm in the cool autumn night. 

(somehow, still, with limbs tangled and someone falling out of bed every so often when they shift the wrong way, it’s the most comfortable bed he’s ever had)

He grins at the groan Aly gives him, and the pleased, sleepy hum from Matthew.

“Chickens?” Aly noses his shoulder, makes a pained sound. “Clay, really?”

“Hey, I like them,” Clayton defends. “And then we get fresh eggs on the regular.”

Matthew rolls into him, drapes one long arm across them both. “I like chickens,” he mumbles. Then he sighs, tosses a leg over Clayton’s too, pinning him well and truly to the mattress. “An’ eggs.”

(he never thought being pinned would make him feel so goddamn safe)

He feels Aly smile against his skin, one that he knows matches his own grin. Matthew falls asleep so _easily_ , and it’s something they tease him about to no end.

“Chickens?” he asks Aly again, hopefully. “Maybe a garden?”

Aly sighs, nods, settles deeper in beside him. “If you’re getting chickens, then I want a cat.”

“An’ a dog,” Matthew mumbles.

Clayton closes his eyes, smile broad under the cover of darkness.

(not that he needs it, here, with them. they see him smile more than anyone else in the world ever will, and he’s okay with that.)

“A real home,” he whispers.

“Yeah, baby,” Aly says, as Matthew starts snoring in Clayton’s hair. “A real home.”

**Author's Note:**

> And they lived happily ever after, with their chickens and their cat and their dog. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!! I hope you enjoyed <3 
> 
> Comments and kudos are noted and loved and appreciated if you feel like leaving them. I am also on [the tumblr](https://thetragicallynerdy.tumblr.com/) if you feel like saying hi!


End file.
